Matters of Doubt (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Arch and I moved cautiously through the swinging doors and stopped dead when we saw what had happened. The back door was open alright, and the battered door knob hung from a single screw. The dead bolt was on the ground among splinters and scraps of wood that lay in a spray pattern in front of the door. Arch whined nervously and pulled at his leash in the direction of the stairs leading up to the apartment on our left. I couldn't tell whether he thought someone was up there or whether he just locked onto the scent they'd left. In any case, I hustled us out of the building and called 911 and Nando Mendoza, in that order.

No one was in the apartment, and the cops left after dusting for prints and completing an incident report. They told me break-ins like mine were a common occurrence, perpetrated by druggies looking for cash and electronics to sell. Nando got there shortly thereafter bearing a tool box and an assortment of lumber. As we worked to temporarily secure the door, he said, “So, they cleaned you out, huh?”

I shook my head in disgust. The enormity of what had happened was settling in. “Shit, not just my computer, which wasn't backed up by the way. They got Picasso's briefcase. It was filled with important stuff about his mom's disappearance. And my briefcase, too, with a bunch of client files. I should have been more careful, but with that deadbolt on the back door, I just wasn't worried about a break-in. How do you think the bastard did it?”

Nando scratched his head and scrunched his bushy eyebrows together. “Someone used a very heavy lead pipe or steel bar. One sharp thrust and
bang
, the deadbolt is ripped from the wall. Very violent, but very effective. This was not the work of a common burglar or someone seeking money for drugs. They look for easier prey. I think whoever broke in had decided how to take that deadbolt out ahead of time. Besides, most people would think this is a vacant building, hardly a target for burglary.”

I nodded in agreement. “I think someone wanted my computer and anything else that would tell them why I'm here in Portland and what I'm up to.”

“Will they learn much from what they took?”

I shrugged. “There was a summary of a discussion I had with Picasso, an email I sent him, as well as a bunch of emails and files from Nicole Baxter's computer, her appointment book and some notes I made. Hell, I hadn't even finished reading it all. But, who knows? At the very least, whoever stole the stuff knows my initial take on the information.”

When we'd finished the temporary fix of the door, Nando said, “I'll send someone over tomorrow to replace it and put on a heavier lock. You're welcome to stay at my place tonight, if you wish.”

“No. I'll stay here.”

My friend looked at me and smiled. “I thought you would say that.” He reached behind his back and pulled a revolver from his belt. “This is a Glock 19, nine millimeter. It will stop a man, even one with a large pipe.” I didn't reach for it, so he extended the gun to me, handle first. “Don't be foolish. Take it. These people you are playing with are dangerous.”

After Nando left, I set about cleaning up the mess upstairs. I had to chuckle about my reluctance to accept the Glock, a testament to the power of Picasso's anti-gun mural. It's a handgun, I told myself, not a damn assault rifle. I straightened my clothes up, placed the books I'd brought back on the nightstand, and put the mattress back on the bed and the cushions back on the couch. Tomorrow I would have to go buy a new laptop, a depressing thought. Even more depressing, I would have to call at least four of my clients and inform them confidential information contained in their files had been stolen and would have to be replaced. I wondered how many of them would fire me after hearing the news. And worst of all, I'd have to tell Picasso I'd lost the information he'd entrusted to me.

When I finished, I put the Glock on the nightstand and fell back on the bed without undressing. It was clear that the break-in was both fishing expedition and warning. I thought about the hostile reactions from Jessica Armandy and Larry Vincent to my questions, the veiled warnings from Pete Stout and detectives Scott and Jones. Hell, even my friend Nando had questioned my involvement in this case. The message seemed to be—walk away, this homeless kid doesn't really count. But I wasn't about to walk away. I don't know which act I loathed more, the murder of a young mother or the attempt to frame a young man for a murder.

This was war. The only question was—who the hell was the enemy?

I woke up the next morning with my clothes still on. After a shower, a shave, and a bowl of granola, I made phone calls to the clients whose files had been stolen. I was handling a divorce for the first client I reached. She was irate and downright rude when she heard the news. The second client was facing a DUI and took the news gracefully. I left messages for the other two. I slipped across the street and bought a copy of
The Oregonian
. There was a follow-up article with photos on the Conyers' murder on page two, which gave more of the victim's background and stated that his restaurant, the Happy Angus, would continue to operate under the management of Conyers' stepbrother, a man named Seth Foster.

I was surprised to read that Conyers owned similar establishments in Seattle and San Francisco. That got me wondering what Conyers' will looked like, if he had one. The article also mentioned that a memorial service would be held that day at eleven at the Old Church, a landmark in the center of the city. I turned to the editorial page and read the letters to the editor, which bristled with dire warnings about the homeless menace. Portland had a reputation as a progressive haven, but Larry Vincent's message seemed to hit a nerve. I wondered if part of the anger was simply because these kids were there, on the street, reminding the rest of us of an unpleasant truth—that we all owned a piece of the blame. I know I felt that way most of the time.

I leashed up Arch and headed over to the clinic to touch bases with Picasso. It was half past eight, and the clinic was closed, but his bike was leaning against the corner of the building. I walked around to the side of the building and stopped dead. Picasso was standing with his hands on his hips looking at his mural. The words
Murderer
and
Go Back To Dignity Village Snake Boy
, accompanied by a liberal sprinkling of swastikas and obscenities, had been spray painted across his work.

“No!” I exploded. “Who the hell did this?” Archie started barking.

Picasso turned to face us, his demeanor catching me completely off guard. He looked calm—a lot calmer than me and my dog—and almost amused by what had happened. He ran a hand through his spiky hair and shrugged. “I don't know who did it. There're plenty of assholes out there with spray cans, and this guy's no Jerry Moses, that's for sure, although I kind of like the name Snake Boy.

“Jerry Moses? Who the hell's Jerry Moses?”

Picasso smiled, fueling my exasperation. “He's a Haitian graffiti artist, works with a spray can in each hand. The guy's awesome.”

I rolled my eyes and turned my hands palms up. “Aren't you
upset
about this?”

“Sure I'm upset. Shit, I was about ready to start painting. This is going to slow me down.”

I exhaled and Archie stopped barking. “You mean you can fix it?”

“Yeah, I can fix it. I'll have to paint over this shit, then re-sketch what's lost. That'll go pretty fast, I think.”

“Aren't you worried this will happen again?”

“A little bit. I'll have to think about how to protect it until I have a finished product. After that, the work is on its own. See, the thing is, if your work's good, really good, it will last, people will respect it. If not, well…”

“That's a high standard to hold yourself to. Like you say, there are a lot of assholes out there.”

“Yeah, I guess so. But it's reality. It's not like art hanging in a gallery somewhere. A street artist has to accept the fact that his work won't last forever. That's part of the beauty of it.”

I nodded. “You're right, I guess. There really aren't any guarantees.”

“Nope. No guarantees.”

“But what about all the work you put into it?”

He smiled and scratched the spot where his eyebrow ring had been. “It's the
journey
, man, that's what's important. Not the ego trip. When I finish a mural, I'm done with it. I try to say something true and then I let it go. It becomes part of the city.”

“How are you going to protect it when you're not working on it?”

“I don't know yet, but I have a couple of ideas.” With that, he turned on his heels and sauntered off toward the back of the building to get his supplies. When he returned, I handed him a green tea I'd gotten across the street. While sipping my double cap, I began filling him in on what had happened the night before.

“So, screwed again, huh?” Picasso said when I'd finished.

“No, not at all. I remember most of the significant points out of the stuff you gave me,” I answered. “One thing, though. I read in one of the newspaper articles you gave me that your mother had a drink with a friend the night she disappeared. Do you remember her name? I'd like to talk to her.”

“Her name's Cynthia Duncan, my mom's best friend. She came to the memorial. She works for one of the small newspapers in town. The
Zenith
, I think.”

I called the
Zenith
and used their automated system to confirm she worked there and then ring her extension. She picked up on the third ring, and an hour later I was in her office sitting across from her. She wore her blond hair in a pixie cut, and her big, expressive brown eyes were in constant motion, like a hummingbird. Her body, too, was charged with a kind of kinetic energy even at rest, and although her handshake was firm, she looked disturbingly thin in a beaded chevron dress, black tights, and lace-up boots.

She told me she had gone to the memorial service and witnessed the outburst between Picasso—Daniel, as she called him—and Conyers. She had lots of questions about Picasso, and I filled her in as best I could, trying to put a positive spin on a pretty desperate situation.

When she asked about the kicking incident, I told her I'd witnessed it, and that he was provoked by the freelance reporter. She said, “I'm not surprised. I know that creep Ronnie Lutz. The reporters in this town are a tight-knit group.”

“Maybe you could say something to him. I'm afraid he's going to want a lot of money for that camera. That could be a big problem for Picasso.”

She nodded. “I'll see what I can do.”

I began asking her what she remembered about Nicole Baxter's disappearance but didn't learn much until I said, “Do you remember anything about her state of mind around the time she disappeared?”

Her answer surprised me. “Yes, I do. She was very excited, exhilarated, I would say.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, work was going really well for her. She was working on some big story. But that wasn't all. She'd been seeing someone else for a while, and it was heating up.”

“Who?”

“Wouldn't tell me.” She smiled for a moment. “Nicky was good at protecting her sources. The guy was married and, of course, she was still going with Mitch Conyers. But she'd finally realized what a loser he was,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This new guy told her he was going to leave his wife for her.”

“Did Conyers know or suspect anything?”

“I don't really know.” She shook her head. “Conyers was such a contemptible bastard.”

“Did you tell the police about the affair?”

“Yes, I did. But I don't think anything ever came of it. I mean, I don't think they ever found out who her lover was.”

“What about the story she was working on? Did she tell you anything about it?”

“Like I said, Nicky was scrupulous about confidentiality. The only thing she told me was that someone big was going down, or something like that, meaning the story was going to hurt someone important.”

“Any idea who that was?”

“Not at the time, but after Nicky disappeared, I made this crazy connection.” She dropped her eyes and focused on something on the cluttered desk between us. “I'm not sure I should tell you. I'm probably way off base.”

I slid to the edge of my chair. “I'm careful with my sources, too.”

She held her eyes on the desk and drummed her fingers for several beats before saying, “Well, right after Nicky disappeared, this rumor popped up around here about a local celebrity who was involved in some kind of scandal. A really juicy one.”

“Who was it?”

“His name's Vincent, Larry Vincent. He's a radio personality, the darling of Portland's far right wingnuts.”

“Why did you connect the two events?”

She laughed and looked back down at her desk again. “The timing, I guess, and the way Nicky talked about it. You know, she was relishing the thought of taking this person down, and she hated bigots with a passion. Then this rumor pops up about this blowhard right after she's gone. It just seemed a little too coincidental, that's all.”

“Did you tell the police about this?”

“Are you kidding? I didn't have the nerve. It was pure conjecture on my part.”

“What became of the rumor?”

“The accusations never surfaced, although Vincent's wife left him right after that. I never heard anything more about it.”

I thought about Vincent's appointment with Nicole Baxter, but she didn't need to know about that. “Thanks. That's something I can look into.”

“Well, it's just a theory, you know. I'd say it's much more likely that Mitch Conyers found out she was going to leave him and killed her. I don't care how good his alibi was.”